


Something to Prove

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Glass 'Verse [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Feelings, Lawyers, M/M, Pining, Power Imbalance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Alexander works late, and Washington is surprisingly forward.





	Something to Prove

“Is something wrong, Alexander?”

The question startles him out of his thoughts, with a jolt so intense he nearly falls from his chair. He hadn’t intended to slide so far into his irritated musings as to forget his surroundings, not to mention the work before him. His laptop screen has gone dark and his highlighter is poised motionless above the brief he was in the process of tearing to pieces.

Alexander’s office—the one he shares with John and Gil—is empty and quiet. Lit only by the single lamp on his desk.

Solitary but for the man standing in the open door frame, watching him.

Washington’s bulk is silhouetted by the brighter glow of the hallway, and Alexander realizes how long he’s been distracted. Sunset has been and gone, leaving a dark sky that he didn’t even notice approaching. He must make for a strange sight, sitting alone in a gloomy office without the overhead lights.

“Sir!” He scrambles, sitting straighter and capping his highlighter. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just— I’m—“

He loses steam, and Washington quirks a single eyebrow in answer, a change in expression barely discernible through the dim light.

There’s no point trying to explain that he was distracted—that much will be painfully obvious—and he has no intention of explaining the _source_ of his distraction. He’s embarrassed at the frustration he’s been chewing on all day, ever since he overheard Burr bragging that he could deliver a better opening argument than Alexander in his sleep.

It shouldn’t stick in his craw like this. He’s _seen_ Burr in a courtroom—has even sat at the table beside him, collaborating on a tricky defense. He knows Burr is an excellent lawyer, on a fast track to making partner. It’s distinctly possible he’s _better_ than Alexander, and maybe that’s the true source of the problem.

Alexander needs to be the best. He _burns_ to prove himself. And for Aaron Burr—a man prone to self-interest but not exaggeration—to boast so confidently?

It cuts through him like a fault line.

He cannot and _will not_ explain the childish cause of his foul mood to Washington, so instead Alexander belatedly asks, “Is there something you need, sir?” His voice sounds mostly normal, and he peers across the room, trying not to feel small under his boss’s heavy scrutiny.

At last, after a lengthy and discomfiting silence, Washington steps fully across the threshold—into the furniture-crowded office—and pulls the door shut behind him. There is something somber in the way he crosses his arms and leans against the jamb. He looks as though he is still waiting for an explanation, though for once Alexander has no idea what to say.

It seems a very long time before Washington observes, "You've been pushing yourself too hard, my boy. This isn't healthy."

Alexander feels an irrational but nearly overpowering urge to laugh at the contradiction of _George Washington_ calling him out for failing to maintain a healthy work-life balance. The man is not usually a hypocrite. Alexander considers pointing out that he's not the only one in this room with a shitty ratio between his hours on and off the clock.

He keeps his mouth shut. The way Washington is watching him, such an argument would probably be unwelcome.

As though sensing his reticence, Washington presses, "It's nearly eleven o'clock and you are _still here_."

"So are you," Alexander snaps without thinking, clenching his jaw too late to censor himself.

Washington's eyes widen and his eyebrows arch high. "This is _my firm_. I can keep terrible hours if I want. You, however, are answerable to a higher authority."

It sounds like a religion when he puts it that way, and an idolatrous one at that. Alexander is a little alarmed at how easily the thought settles. He _does_ idolize Washington. Worshipped him even before he recognized his own inconvenient infatuation. He swallows and looks down at the papers beneath his hands, unable to meet his boss's stare even in the low light.

"Alexander," Washington says more softly, pushing off the door jamb and crossing the creaky part of the floor. "Why are you doing this to yourself? Go home. _Rest_."

"I need to finish drafting a response to this brief." It sure as hell won't answer itself, no matter _how_ wrong-headed and ridiculous its conclusions.

"Is it due to be filed in the morning?"

Alexander glowers at the page. "No."

"Then stand down, soldier." Washington says the words lightly, smooth enough to mask the undercurrent of sincere concern flowing beneath. "The work will keep." He's standing so close now, right at Alexander's elbow. Leaning against the edge of the desk. Close enough to touch.

Alexander isn't quite stupid enough to touch. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and resists the urge raise his eyes. He already knows Washington will look devastatingly gorgeous at close range.

"Alexander." There is a cajoling note this time. Then fingers curl beneath his jaw and nudge his head back, a gesture demanding eye contact, and Washington asks, "What is this really about?"

Now that he's caught, Alexander can't bear to look away. He stares up into Washington's face, mesmerized by the familiar arrangement of features. The smooth mouth, round jaw, dark eyebrows. The complicated play of deep shadow and bright lamplight making the handsome aspect into a study of contrasts. The hint of stubble that proves the late hour just as surely as the darkness outside.

How can he answer that he is doing this _for Washington_? That his pricked pride and his anger at Burr are amplified by his need to impress the _one man_ standing beside him now? His fears of inadequacy are ever-present alongside his bravado and self-confidence—a contradiction he has long since given up on questioning—but those fears are heightened by more personal feelings. The knowledge that Washington will only ever look at him as a subordinate and a colleague only makes Alexander more desperate to prove himself in any capacity he can.

When the hand beneath his chin falls away, Alexander answers with an incomplete truth. "I don't want to let you down, sir."

Washington's expression shifts into something indecipherable, but his gaze still holds Alexander trapped. There is tension in those broad shoulders now. A downward flicker at one corner of Washington's mouth.

"Your health is more important than your work, my boy." There is disapproval in Washington's tone, but the admonishment still sends a shiver along Alexander's spine.

_No it isn't_ , he wants to argue, but rationally he recognizes that Washington is right. Worse, Washington has the authority to _order_ him home. He could call security and have Alexander escorted from the premises, his security credentials revoked for however many days' rest he deems necessary. Alexander will gain nothing by digging his heels in tonight.

So he tidies his papers, sorts them into their folders, and locks those folders in the bottom drawer of his desk. He would prefer to tuck them in his bag and continue working at home, but Washington is watching him too closely.

"Fine," Alexander concedes as he rises from his chair, doing his damnedest to ignore how close he finds himself standing to Washington, who still leans against the desk with arms crossed and an intense expression on his face. "Maybe this research will go better in the morning."

"Perhaps," Washington agrees in a fractionally lighter tone.

But when Alexander moves as though to retreat, Washington reaches out to block him, one hand curling around his biceps in a cautious but deliberate grip. The touch keeps Alexander close, arresting his attempt to withdraw.

It’s just like at the aquarium, only this time he can’t fathom what Washington’s purpose might be. The building is nearly empty at this hour, and anyone still here is in the firm’s employ. There’s no one to impress with a polished image, so it can’t possibly matter that Alexander looks a disheveled mess. Whatever flyaway strands of hair Washington might intend to tuck back, they won’t be enough to compensate for the rumpled suit, missing tie and severe shadows under Alexander’s eyes.

_Sir_? he wants to say, but the word sticks in his throat, caught by a swell of feelings with no outlet, and by the speeding surge of his heartbeat.

Washington’s eyes are narrowed, expression considering. When that gaze drops briefly to his mouth, Alexander wonders if he’s imagining all this. A pleasant dream seems a far more likely explanation than anything reality might have to offer.

It _is_ real, though. It’s too vivid, even— _especially_ —when Washington’s other hand rises to cup his jaw and guide him. Forward. Tipping his face up so all Washington has to do is duck his head in order to close the distance between them.

In order to kiss him.

Oh god, Washington is _kissing him_. Alexander closes his eyes and leans more surely forward, breathing a soft sound that even he isn’t sure how to interpret. Equal parts disbelief and want, maybe. Fuck, of course there’s an edge of _want_ in the sound, how could there not be when he’s craved this so desperately, and for so damn long?

Instead of deepening the kiss—instead of dragging Alexander tighter to him—Washington turns his head, effectively breaking away. Another moment and his hands fall aside, releasing Alexander completely, and Washington pushes past him to put some distance between them.

Farther from the desk—standing near the center of the office—Washington stands in deeper shadow. His face, difficult to read before, is even more cryptic now. Alexander turns and meets his eyes, whole body tense with the effort of holding his ground when all he wants is to hurl himself into Washington’s arms.

“I should not have done that,” Washington observes, though a wry tone undercuts the words. More dry humor than guilt. Alexander swallows hard and takes a cautious step toward him.

“You could do it again,” he suggests. He is desperate for more. He wants to continue, or even better, take this elsewhere. “And then you could give me a ride home. It’s late. No one would know.”

He means the offer sincerely, so his pride prickles when Washington’s only answer is a low chuckle.

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny,” Alexander sulks, dropping his gaze to stare at the worn carpet. He’s glad the dim shadows hide his blush of embarrassment.

“Forgive me,” Washington says. “I’m not laughing at _you_ , I promise. But I think we can both agree that would be a bad idea.”

_No_ , Alexander wants to argue. _It’s the best idea I’ve ever had_. Washington can drive him home, and then Alexander can invite him inside. His apartment is clean—he doesn’t spend enough time in it to make a proper mess—and his bed is small but comfortable, with just enough room for two.

But his ego can’t take being laughed at _twice_ , when all he wants is for Washington to touch him again.

“Go home, Alexander,” Washington admonishes gently. “If you need a ride, I’ll call a cab.”

Alexander’s face heats even more. “No, that’s— I don’t need a taxi.” The train will get him home just fine.

“Then I’ll see you in the morning.” Washington is already turning for the door. “Goodnight, Alexander.”

“Goodnight, sir,” he answers, and wills his speeding pulse to slow.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Brag, Ratio, Fault
> 
> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** , if you'd like to find me. (And have set up a **[Hamilton/Washington Community](https://whamilton.dreamwidth.org/)** over there, just a heads up to anyone who might be interested :)


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